With scetch before him,

Defining the scheme of each exquisite line,

A weaver sits, busily twining his weft

In a mystic design.

And those who have lingered

Alongside the loom of the artisan there,

Have told me he plies from the wrong side,

His weft, for the right side, with care.

Nor sees, till his service is ended,

The tapestry loosened, and turned,

The marvel of beauty there blended

By art that his patience has earned.

But, when on the right side he gazes,

And ponders the work of his hand,

Its richness of concept amazes his soul,

As he wondering stands.

He lingers in rapt admiration.

Now, clearly, each delicate strand

Translates the occult inspiration

That quickened his dexterous hand.

* * *

Our years, by the Master's direction

Are given our life strands to run,

In outlines of grace and perfection

Designed by the Infinite One.